Chapter Four
As far as I was concerned--sitting there nursing my fifth beer, jizz all over our bodies-- Uncle Tom and I could have agreed to just go bareassed from then on. In my beery state, I even suggested it.
"We won't have to bother with the laundry every week," I grinned over at him.
Uncle Tom remained characteristically quiet, enjoying the afterglow of it all. But I could tell he wasn't keen on the idea. His silences made me stay calmer and more centered.
We listened to the birds--to the late afternoon October wind blowing around the tops of the pines.
"Sometimes clothes are sexier than skin," he finally answered. "--and anyway, I'm really pretty conservative about such things."
It took showering and a very long nap on my bed to make me feel my own familiar shyness again. I woke to a darkened room, smelling Uncle Tom's cooking. My head felt dull, but not achy-- and my mouth felt furry and gravel pit dry.
For a minute or two it was as though nothing at all had changed. Uncle Tom was whistling to the radio, moving dishes around the kitchen. I was in my room, feeling hungry, happy to be cared for. And the memory of our being naked on the porch together felt made-up--not real.
But of course, everything
had
changed--just how, I wasn't sure.
And I felt shy. I felt unable to walk into the kitchen fully clothed--much less, naked. Uncle Tom's earlier comment to me--hoping it wasn't simply the beer making us horny--made me wonder whether or not that were so.
Suddenly I felt awkward again--very young, and inexplicably guilty.
Maybe he was feeling regretful--wishing it all hadn't happened.
"Hey," I heard a low voice say.
I looked over at the doorway. Uncle Tom's body was silhouetted against the light. I could feel his presence across the room.
"My mouth feels like cotton," I said.
He stood there, looking over at me. "You hungover?"
I elbowed my way up onto the pillows. "Not as bad as expected. For sure, a little woozy. Are you?"
He shook his head. "I slept, too. You want some soup? I made some soup--chicken."
Uncle Tom seems to know when to speak and when to be quiet. His silences are always peaceful--hardly ever uncomfortable.
I dressed and entered the kitchen, no longer so nervous. And soup was what we both seemed to need. I watched him dip his bread into it, a habit he'd picked up from me. I smiled. And he looked up and smiled back. He sopped up his soup, then ate slowly, intentionally.
Uncle Tom isn't much of a smiler. When he does, it speaks way louder than words. This one was strong and warm. It told me we were okay--that what had happened was fine. It was all cool.
I breathed deeply, feeling better again inside.
His smile made me look at the opened part of his shirt--at all the black curls and the deep divide of his pecs. I looked at his tremendous arms and shoulders--at how he never hunched over his food the way I sometimes did. Uncle Tom was handsome, and shy, and sexy as hell.
He knew I was eyeing him--and he wiped his lips and let his eyes drift over my own muscle-filled shirt.
"It wasn't the beer, you know," I blurted out across the table.
He nodded a little. "I know," he said. "You want some coffee?"
He stood up, his jeans snug around his hips--his plaid flannel shirt neatly tucked-in.
"It'll keep us up," I said.
Uncle Tom brought two mugs over and set one in front of me, then filled it.
My eyes couldn't help staring at the bulge of his fly, feeling the nearness of his crotch.
"Tomorrow's Saturday," he said, pouring one for himself. "We can sleep in." He sat back down.
Thoughts of my sharing his bed brought heat to my cheeks. I stared down at my coffee. Uncle Tom felt my silence and watched me carefully.
"It's new to me, too," he said after a while. "If we didn't have doubts, then I'd worry."
I nodded, then put two sugars in my mug. "Do you hog the sheets?" I asked, trying to joke a little, yet feeling my neck turning pink.
Uncle Tom gave a little smile. "I don't know. We're going to find out."
"Can we be naked?" my heart skipped a beat. I felt my cheeks turn scarlet.
"We can be naked," he answered.
We sipped our coffees, listening to the radio play a fifties song.
It was a song about sixteen reasons to love a guy. Uncle Tom hummed it and got up to open the bread box.
He was right about clothes being sexy. With his plaid shirt and jeans on, he made me keep thinking over what they were covering up. The stripes were bunched together at his waist, and then grew wider apart along his back. My eyes kept going from his round ass up the spreading plaid to his enormous houlders--at the mounded stripes of his biceps.
Every shirt Uncle Tom wore couldn't hide his muscles--in fact, if anything, his clothes lived and breathed muscle. His jeans left nothing hidden. Yet, I knew that like me, Uncle Tom wore whatever was handy.
Between us, we only owned a few shirts and a couple pair of jeans and overalls.
"Have a cookie," he said.
I looked at his forearm--at the size of it, at the masculine hair below the cuffs--at his large hands. I took the cookie.
"We can eat them on the sofa," he nodded towards the front room. "The woodstove's going. Bring your coffee."
My heart was beating fast when I saw him stretched along the couch, his back up against the far arm. When I approached, he just let his big thighs fall open. He watched me with smiling eyes and set his mug on the rug.
My coffee nearly spilling, I knelt on the sofa cushion at his bare feet, then turned my back. His hands secured my hips and guided my butt down against his crotch. Watching my coffee, I carefully leaned back to nestle myself against his wide chest.
The side of Uncle Tom's face was snug above my left ear, his breath washing over my cheekbone. His body was warm, his thighs hugging my waist, his crotch full against my butt.
I was in heaven.
My cock tingled and swelled inside my jeans. I rubbed my bare feet along his calves. I felt wrapped in muscular heat.
